The bodies that were burning on soft stakes of light last night, are now moving again. though unfamiliar with the lightness of cheerless air, though stranger to the tune of fire in this new land they move with their heavy hands, with the spoils of life spilling out of their mouths with a spectacle hidden under their ribs They move across the silent narrow fields of blooming coal, under the gray aging bones of the the fruitless godly plants, their ears ever aware, ever desperate for the ringing of a spark, for the burning, for life to begin.
I light lamps, sow seeds of lighthouses in gratitude for this weak flesh that can build itself anew, in spite of the nights when all the warmth in the world evades it. I chant the names that don’t belong on my lips with boundless grace and bitterness and longing and not die from the memory of having lived. I sit content and complete knowing my breaking cannot forever stay in me. I smile with relief, knowing nothing would hurt as it should, as it does. I write another poem of love, knowing nothing I love will be loved well enough. I look back at our old odd selves and find the heart to smile knowing that the list of “beasts and wonders extinct” – only grows longer.
A summer comes alive, a branch flowers at the touch of my hand. My hands that were just held by you they find all dead things, all dark corners of life. There is so much of life in these hands that are now desired by you. There is so much that can now be brought back to life, so much that can stop hurting. There is no way to stop all this warmth from spilling out of me anyway. This world, this path of ruins, this history of us, existed for this moment maybe so that we may learn the texture of hope in each other’s skin, so that we may see the rebirth of light in each other’s eyes.
The fork in my hand scratches furiously at the new sheen of the borrowed plate. The dense death and the calcium of my hand tries to make a dent in my green vessels, my skin too persistent to break away, to let anyone else win. My teeth runs away from cheap meat- the soft fish, the bird drained of blood lie wasted in the mouth of people as they kiss and cave into equally hungry lying mouths. My teeth digs in, tears into that one loveless heart, trying to find some hunger for myself, a hollow to store my excess, my too much, the insufferable and the glittering overflow, the by-product of life that doesn’t want to be lived. All this destruction, does something to me I feel there is revelation, some hidden logic these marks and sounds are leading me to, so I flow along. waiting for the moment when the desperate whimpers give away to something else, something beautiful, something that will make me finally cry that will hurt me in the most irreversible way something that will make me a human capable of losing and loving anyway. Maybe ‘the end’ is just a scary sign, beyond which the life I wanted to live begins, a place without illusions and truths. A point of just easy breathing.”
the woman with red lips , with her body flattened on the thickest shiniest paper stands dead, stands tall, as big as the most reflective bone, the most visible and most sought assembly of bricks, grown on the most affluent dreams. she wobbles like a rootless tooth when the wind blows. inside the low blood walls, across the road that have never been stepped on, she stands, she towers and never dares to look down on anyone but herself. she smiles the smile that would have been a sunrise-finally-felt if only it was really meant. if only it was all true it wouldn’t have been heart breaking to be looked at.
Even if this moment casts me to hell*, even if this is a seed of hurt that will soon be my new skin, as long as your spirit embraces me there would be only spring, there would only be morning birds, and silent roads filled with your sweet footsteps.
How false this all is. Let’s imagine something truer. Something true like returning to the pain. I imagined another world devoid of distant fires. A room filled with moonlight and sorrow. Here I heard myself speak of the pain that I cannot forget, that I cannot stop to seek. I heard myself stupidly ramble about the cold settled in my stomach, the snow that had no winter to name as its mother, how I tried to seek another face that could make looking at my own bearable, how I broke everything but me because that was the only way to really hurt myself. I heard her cry. I asked her again and again how much more truer should my pain be for her love to become real, for my love to count. But I only heard her cry.
i would wake up and find myself again in another room with another stranger (obviously broken) and i would try to remember the night before, the season before, the feelings before i ended up here. i fail to recall the pain that drew me here, i fail to remove this person from the mess of all the words that has been said to me before. before is now a continuum. and “you”, “me”, and “us” and “we” are just terms that point nowhere, to nothing but they carry too many people inside, the seams of these words are always coming apart, there is too much weight to these light words, they leave our shoulders and heart broken. how lovely it would be to be singular again. how simple everything could be. but everything tends to flow, tends to merge, tends to find roots every time it taste defeat, it finds ground. it is still somehow good. though good is maybe a relative term. but then everything is relative, even us. me and you are different only when we are placed far apart in time and space. as i drown diaries and memories in the waters of the forests that you used to visit, i find myself walking as you, sharing your skin of fear, speaking the broken language of your dreams. as you, i end up drowning a lot more, losing a lot many things than i had planned to. it doesn’t hurt, honestly, when that happens. a lot of things should hurt but they don’t. and i feel that is my tragedy. i used to feel every loss even of others and i loved it. and now because i feel nothing i have taken up jobs on the excavation sites of pain of strangers that are dying from numbness. my presence seems to help, at least diverts attention. the “too much” about me helps everyone but me. i have an excess of blood, an excess of heart however implausible that might seem. but it is so. i have learnt that after numerous burnings and denial. all that breathes, all that seems to be made of magic and speaks in voice of thunder, anything that we don’t understand we have burned them enough. we are burning too much of ourselves. but that is not my problem. at least not my only problem. i have never had a definable problem. but we can talk as if they are, as if everyone can be broken down into components of their loss and yearnings and lacks, their playlist and bookshelves and friend list, the people we hate and love and can’t stop to obsess about- the people we are dying to forget and living in remembrance of. we sound so noble tonight when we talk like this . as if we are above the shallow plains of life. i will forget your name though, and you will also forget or at least would want to forget a lot about me that is a totally different type of shallow, isn’t it. we have shared so much and we will hate ourselves for it.
We both were people looking for blood. Looking for the vessel, a flesh to fill our favorite story of the most sorrowful love. All that we dreamed of was hurt at first sight. This was never about love. This was never about us. The moment, the feeling that could outlive us after taking our lives, we have only yearned for it. How wonderful that we are finally here. Here to start this spectacular thing that will be the end us.
so my blue dream is not even mine now. i am just a mesh of people who hate me. their fingers are my fingers now poking my skin, endless railroads of red are built with their nails that they do not even cut before they sell me their fake love-filled eyes. their eyes are my eyes that wants to smash every reflective surface where i fall. every reflective thought is just a poison. a poison, a gossip, an untrue version of me running wild in the minds of those who look at me. they gossip about me so i gossip about myself , whisper my secrets into the air or better, into the ears of lovers who are chosen especially for their talents in indifference, vulnerability, and emotional violence. lovers who can break me – are all that i want. i need someone else to do this breaking for me because i am coward who can’t move towards the end i want, and also because my hands are busy. i have more things to do. i need my hands to tear my talents apart in the name of value, tear my feelings apart in the name of my worthlessness. i need my hands to paint again and again. paint indifferences on my insecurities that come a bit too often to the surface of my skin now, paint laugh lines on the bleeding corners of my lips, paint dreams of love, moments of hurt, grand betrayals on my otherwise lonely mind, paint humans that match the shadows in me, painting causes and assurances. i must paint. i must paint a reason- a reason why i suffer so, why this world works like how it does, why i must break as the world breaks, why i must break even for fixing this world. i must paint a face so that others don’t break at the sight of my face. i clip my nails everyday so that when i become someone’s ghost when someone suffers because of me at least my hands won’t leave them scars.